Vignettes 2
by chezchuckles
Summary: Continuing the three words prompt-fills from tumblr.
1. Son hitting puberty

**#297**

* * *

 _Son hitting puberty_

 _— ANONYMOUS_

* * *

"Carter, wow, what are you doing awake?"

Her son scuffs his toe against the floor in something so stereotypically sheepish that Kate has to struggle against laughter. Instead, she finishes pouring her coffee and adds a little vanilla syrup, waiting on Carter to speak.

No one else is awake this early, and she's honestly surprised Carter is - up and dressed this early too. Her kids usually sleep in during their summers off, and Carter seems to be the biggest culprit.

He's as tall as her shoulder at twelve years old, and he just keeps growing every time she turns around - which is Rick's excuse for letting the boy sleep in so late. "Car?"

"Um, where's dad?"

Kate lifts her head, the mug halfway to her mouth. "Carter."

He rubs the back of his neck in a gesture so like Rick that it makes her smile.

And seeing her smile, Carter blushes hard, won't meet her eyes.

"Hey," she says gently. "You want to talk to dad, you can do that. Guy stuff?"

His ears are red now, not just his cheeks.

 _Oh_. It's five in the morning and her twelve year old has come downstairs. "Hey, kiddo, grab your sheets, pajamas too?, and dump them in the washing machine. Okay? And then you can wake up your dad and have him show you what to do, or I can after I get a shower."

Cheeks, ears, the nape of his neck, all beet red. He mumbles an answer but she pretends she's heard it and strides towards him. She loops an arm around his shoulders and hugs him against her side. He sort of buries his face against her shoulder but then shrugs her off. "Um. Thanks. Mom."

She goes; she doesn't mind that at all. She takes her coffee mug into the bedroom and creeps towards the bed, tugs on Rick's foot to wake him.

It takes a moment, it takes a little more viciousness in her tugging, but he grunts and glares up at her. "What the…"

"Your son," she says, trying not to laugh at the mussed hair, the drooping eyes, the crease on his cheek from the pillow. "Your son needs you, Rick. So be awake. I'm pretty sure it's gonna be a conversation about what's normal and what isn't, and then you're gonna have to show him how to use the washing machine."

Castle gives her a blank look.

Kate shakes her and leans in to brush the flop of hair off his forehead. He still looks confused so she offers her mug of coffee.

He takes it gratefully and downs nearly half of her cup. Winces. Moves his tongue around in his mouth like he's burned it.

And then it seems to click for him. "Oh. _Oh."_ His face brightens. "Hey. This is my first man-to-man talk!"

She laughs and takes her mug back. "Alright, well, I need to take a shower. Some of us have to work. You console your son."

"My son," he grins, looking so pleased. Like he's already accomplished something great.

Well, he has. Puberty has its pitfalls, but Rick is a good dad, and he'll know exactly what to say to make everything just fine in Carter's world.

—–


	2. Kate, concussion, fatigue

**#298**

* * *

 _Hi there :) Three word for you: Kate, concussion, fatigue Post couple please_

 _— ANONYMOUS_

* * *

Her head swims in fog.

He would say that's a mixed metaphor, but he's wrong. Her brain is clouded in pea soup, and it's attempting the backstroke to see its way clear.

Not working very well, that.

The headache started at her temples and now squeezes like a rubber band behind her eyes. When she moves too quickly, everything goes soft and blurry but the pain gets sharp.

Even before the paramedic checks her out, she knows what it is.

"Concussion," Castle pronounces grimly. He stands at the back of the bus as if to block her from leaving.

"I know," she murmurs, easing her eyelids down over swollen-hot eyeballs. "I'm not arguing."

"You took a full tackle."

"Mm, yeah."

"He brought to down to the sidewalk."

"I was there."

"I'm not happy."

She opens her eyes, equally as slowly as she closed them, and she hopes her gaze is as withering as she wants it to be.

Apparently it is not. He continues with, "I'm really not happy, Beckett. I saw your head _bounce."_

"Well, I felt it, if that's any consolation to you, Castle. Since you're the victim here."

His face blanches. Ouch, it hurt saying it and it hurts all over again see that look in his eyes.

She can't win.

The paramedic hops into the back of the bus and she and Castle both wince. His is perhaps in sympathy; she'll give him credit for that much, since he's the one not happy.

The paramedic peels off his blue gloves and shoves them into a biohazard waste bin built into the side of the ambulance. He gives her a once-over. "Concussion," he says, whistling. "Your eyes keep crossing."

"Well, thanks," she mutters.

"I'm not happy-"

"If you keep saying that," she threatens, but there is absolutely nothing she can do about it. Empty threat. And yet he still shuts his mouth.

And crosses his arms over his chest, radiating his unhappiness.

But he _did_ just see her head hit the sidewalk.

The paramedic does the usual stuff - track my finger, look up, what day is it? - and she must give a couple wrong answers because Castle's face just absolutely masks.

Panic. It's his panic face, which is a blank nothing, that frozen in the headlights deer. Dear. Huh. A pun. She made a-

"We're taking you to the hospital," the paramedic is saying, trying to lay her down.

"What?" she says, but she can hear how the word slurs in her mouth. Like her tongue is no longer controlled by… by whatever controls a tongue. What _does_ control the tongue? She usually just speaks and it's falling into line, she's never had to think of it before, never had to tell those muscles - which muscles - isn't the tongue itself a muscle?

"Yes, it's a muscle, it's a muscle, lie down, Kate." He's looming over her somehow. He's blotting out the whole sun, the world, he is the whole world. "That would be sweet if you weren't scaring me to death."

"You, 'bout you," she sighs. He watched her head hit the sidewalk. Oh, her head. The ache is throbbing behind her eyes. She wants to lie down.

"Not sleep, not to sleep, no. I'm sorry, no, stay awake, Kate." A pat against her cheek, a sharper sting that makes her gasp, and stare at him, and wonder.

"Sirens?" she mumbles, surprised.

"You'll go for a CT scan, look at your brain." The paramedic? Oh there was a driver, right. Must have been. Did the other guy look at her first? She can't remember now how she got into the back of the bus in the first place.

"Bleeding."

"Don't go looking for trouble." Castle is nodding, but that was the paramedic, _don't borrow trouble_ , why would she ask for it? It always seems to find her.

Lips against her fingers, the weird echoing of the siren, her head throbbing and heavy. "Can I take a nap or is that bad?"

Rick's eyes intent on hers. "Please, don't."

"He said I could," she lies.

"He didn't."

"I know," she sighs. "Hard to sleep going over potholes. Call the mayor, Rick. These roads are a nightmare."

The paramedic laughs. Someone anyway. Castle strokes the hair back from her face and leans in - and kisses her.

Right on the mouth.

Oh. Oh, they do that now.

Oh, that's really lovely.

—–


	3. House, Gift, Anniversary

**#299**

* * *

 _Three Words Prompt: House, Gift, Anniversary. :)_

 _— ANONYMOUS_

* * *

He gapes at the price tag and spins on his heel, grabbing her by the arm to haul her back. "Wait. Hey. Come on, you're kidding."

She smiles enigmatically and shakes her head, dislodging his grip. "Not kidding. You said you wanted to ski more often."

"That was before the broken leg," he hisses, following her as she follows the agent through the log cabin.

Yeah, not a log cabin at all really. It's a three million dollar home modeled in the style of a lodge, and somehow Kate _bought_ it.

She comes back to take him by the hand and tug him forward, and now he follows with a creeping kind of horror.

And yeah, he can admit it - a certain thrill.

Big Sky, Montana, has been a favorite of theirs since the debacle on the Alps all those years ago. Closer to home, she knows the language for his inevitable dire emergencies, and the slopes are friendlier. Plus, she enjoys taking him horseback riding and laughing at how clumsy he is on a big smart beast.

"There's a stable co-op just past the trees," she says, pressing in against his arm. "And a sauna.."

"This isn't a cabin," he growls. "When you said, hey let's get a little house for our anniversary, I thought you meant a cozy cottage on the way to the slopes."

"Well. Close."

"This is a winter palace."

"Mm, if the shoe fits."

He grunts and takes a long look at the main hall. The agent stands at the opposite end, his hands folded before him. Kate already has the keys. This is just a formal tour to show off the place to him, so _she_ can show it off.

She's already bought it.

"The kids will love it," she says softly. "And most importantly, they have their side of the house, we have ours."

"Oh." He grins. "Sold."

"Already sold, Rick," she laughs, patting his forearm and leading him down the long hall. Towards their destiny. "But if it really is too much, he's here to put it right back on the market."

"No," he cries out, more horrified by that thought than by what she's done. "No, don't do that. Kids will love it, you're right. We should keep it for the kids."

She knows him better than that, but all she does is grin and throw the agent a wink.

And now they have a ski chalet.

—–


	4. my life line

#300

* * *

 _Three word prompt: My life line_

 _— ANONYMOUS_

* * *

It's not that either one of them really want to watch a movie, they're barely paying attention to the screen. It's just that neither of them want to go out.

It's too new. It's too raw with them still. Every time he looks at her, it feels like her chest is collapsing and her heart throbbing to escape. He touches the back of her hand, or he brushes the hair off her neck and she tastes him on her tongue like a sense memory.

It's erotic, but it's also not fit for public consumption.

So they watch a superhero movie he picked out - or already had queued - and while it plays on his laptop, they sit side by side on the couch and pretend they aren't wrapped around each other.

She isn't practically in his lap. His arm isn't pressed between her thighs and his hand not somehow wrapped around her ankle. She isn't closing her eyes to inhale the scent of his skin at his nape. He won't, from time to time, lay his cheek to the top of her head.

Oh, whatever. She is. He is. They're doing this.

God. She doesn't want to ruin it. Please, let her not ruin this.

He angles the laptop a little more on the arm of the couch and his hand comes back to hers in his lap. He threads their fingers together, undoes them, fiddles with her thumb and the webbing, the knuckle.

Playing.

She holds her breath and surreptitiously watches from under her lowered lashes, marveling at how large his hand is, how thick his fingers. Where and how he used them last night, not only to card through her hair and the tangled knots of thunderstorm, but lower, better, more intently. Adeptly.

He rubs his thumb along her palm, stroking. Reminders. She shivers and turns he face into the back of his shoulder, pressing closer to his ribs.

She wants his hand on the button of her jeans. She doesn't want him to stop what he's doing right now. She wants contradictory things; she wants everything.

He smooths out her palm, his chest rumbles as he tries to speak. It might be for the first time today. She can't remember their actually having said anything to each other. It's all been mouths for other uses. Hands, gestures, a jerk of his head, a triumphant laptop raised aloft, awkward looks as they settled in for some kind of normal daily routine.

None of this is normal.

(But she hopes to God it will be.)

He finally finds his voice. "Your heart line is all broken up." And his thumb follows the track of what must be her heart.

She swallows roughly, sensation arcing in her like solar flares. "But my lifeline… leads straight to you." She feels stupid, she feels thrillingly empowered with the heady fullness of love. "And isn't that better? Life together."

"Always."

—–


	5. Jake homerun baseball

#302

* * *

 _Three Word prompt. Jake homerun baseball_

 _— ANONYMOUS_

* * *

Bottom of the sixth, and her kid is swaggering up to the batter's box like he has ownage on this pitcher. Jake has never actually seen this team before, but he had good at-bats in the first and third, and he might think he knows.

Okay, she has to calm down. She's over-analyzing every pitch, every play. Her kid struts like a Castle, that's true, and he has Rick's big head, both the boys do, which means, really, that he makes an excellent target.

The last team, in the semi-finals, thought so anyway. Poor kid was drilled in the back twice, though he thought it was just taking one for the team. He was so excited about it.

Her nine year old should not be taking one for the team.

Jake steps up the plate and Castle gives a piercing whistle, fingers at the corners of his mouth. He meets her eyes and grins, shrugging for it, but she can't really fault him.

She's just as anxious, just as thrilled. Jake was pulled onto the Harlem Heat team to be their third baseman, his defensive skills are excellent, but he's slowly managed to make a name for himself offensively as well. Last time up, he knocked in the first run for their team.

She shifts on the bleachers, scrapes a hand back through her hair as the first pitch goes wide. The catcher has to lean out, easy take, and her heart is thumping in her chest.

"He's fine, doing fine," Castle murmurs.

The moment their son wanted to play baseball, Castle was buying books and studying clips on youtube. Cute. He's a good dad, if a little over the top, and he's given Jake the swagger at least. No Castle skills go into _that_ , but she has to admit the confidence plays a part.

The second pitch is a strike on the corner, a generous strike, and Castle mutters at the ump under his breath. They have a deal when it comes to the kids' games: no negatives. They don't yell at the officials, whether it's Lily's soccer refs, Reece's soccer _coach_ , or Jake's games.

Third pitch is a foul, off the skinny part of the bat, and she can see how much that stings. Jake hops back out of the batter's box, paces away, swinging the bat a few times in practice.

Castle cups his hands around his mouth. "That's okay, way to defend the wide strike zone!"

"Rick," she hisses, elbowing him. But Jake is in the zone, doesn't hear his dad's suggestive positivity, returns to the batter's box with a determined face.

She claps loudly for him, wishing she could stand and watch, better angle, but it's the sleepy sixth, the score 1-1, not much excitement.

Fourth pitch is also foul, and she feels her guts tightening. Two strikes and a ball, and now Jake seems to be swinging defensively at pitches he doesn't like, aren't in his wheelhouse.

"You got this, you got this," Castle yells. He's the one who does most of the encouraging, the constant chatter from the sidelines. Other parents are giving him stank-eye, but her big enthusiastic dope doesn't care.

She loves him. A dope. But she loves him.

The kid on the mound, a _tall_ kid for nine, seriously, takes a long look into home. Jake crouches in his unlikely stance, rocking side to side as he times his rhythm. She hasn't touched his swing in two years, not since he started lessons with Coach Johnny at Manhattan Youth in the summers.

All his idea. Jake is all about baseball.

"He's got this," Castle says at her side. Another ball fouled off the end of Jake's bat and the natives are getting restless. The outfielders are inching in, the kids in the dugout are talking a little too loudly.

No one seems to be paying Jake much attention.

And that's when he takes the next pitch deep.

 _Deep_.

"Oh my God!" Kate jumps to her feet, watching it sail, sail, sail. "Go Jakey, go Jakey! That's my son! _"_ Kate claps both hands to her mouth to keep in the scream that wants out, staring at the ball.

"Jake. _Run_."

Jake is stopped halfway down the first base line, just watching the ball soar, but at Castle's bellow, his feet unstick and he gets moving.

But it doesn't matter. Doesn't matter at all. Already the kid that was on third base is trotting towards home, easily, while the ball goes clear over the fence and bounces on the sidewalk just past the outfield.

Home run.

"Go Jake!" she screams. Can't stop herself. She and Rick are both jumping up and down like maniacs, yelling and screaming, and here comes Jake around the bases, his grin splitting his face, so wide and pride.

She _longs_ to be at home plate with his team to slug the crap out of him for that long ball, but she has to content herself with socking Castle in the shoulder even as he crushes her in a side hug.

Ha.

Her kid hit a home run. 3-0 Harlem Heat.

—–


	6. Annoying, cough, tea

#303

* * *

 _Annoying, cough, tea_

 _— ANONYMOUS_

* * *

She could strangle him.

She cannot fall asleep with him doing that.

What the hell, Castle?

If he clears his throat with that little clutch in it one more time, she's gonna lose it.

A year ago, she would've given anything to have these him irritating her again, just to have him in their bed, just to have him right here, and Beckett tries to hang on to that. A year ago, she was lost and bewildered and _aching_ without him, so much so that she often got in her cruiser and headed up the coast, mindlessly searching the Hamptons for a sign.

Mindless.

She has to remember that. The Kate Beckett of a year ago would _hate_ her for being so frustrated by him. _Ungrateful_. She knows that. She does.

Oh my God, if he does it one more time-

Kate jerks out of bed and stumbles in her ill-timed movement. Castle turns on the mattress, eyes bleary with a sleep that won't come, but she holds up a hand and shakes her head, stalks off.

Says nothing. Can't. Not when guilt and shame are as filling as the annoyance and frustration.

It all doubles back on her.

She should just sleep on the couch.

Tomorrow will be better. She'll be better. A good night's sleep after that case, let it all go, and she'll be the wife she ought to be. She just needs a little space, a night where he's not sniffly or coughing or snoring. She needs some _sleep._ And don't they say that absence makes the heart-

 _break_

Kate pauses in the middle of the living room, her heart tumbling hard with that knock.

Absence. They've known too much of absence. And that wasn't fondness, oh God, no. It's only been a year since she started to think, _maybe he's not coming back, maybe his dreams come true but mine turn into nightmares._

She's had enough of nightmares and absence.

Kate scans the loft, makes up her mind, and heads for the kitchen. It's a matter of displacing the coffee filter they filled earlier tonight, turning on the coffeemaker, and letting the water run through.

She finds the container of loose chamomile in the cabinet and takes down the ridiculous tea infuser he bought for her - a lounging mermaid whose tail holds the leaves and whose arms sprawl the mug.

She packs the leaves into the tail and pops it back onto the mermaid's body, leaves her in the bottom of the mug at first. Kate pours hot water into the cup, the mermaid rises as the water does, and then she fishes out the mermaid's head to dunk it slowly, letting it steep.

It already smells heavenly.

She attaches the mermaid to the side of the mug, replaces the coffee in the filter, resets the timer on the coffeemaker, and gathers the tea.

When she returns to the bedroom, Castle is propped up against the headboard, his face creased with worry.

But his eyebrows come up, the heaviness leaves features, and he smiles.

She makes her way carefully to the bed, sinks down near his thigh with the mug held out for him. "Here. Should help, Rick."

"Thanks," he rumbles, his voice catching on spurs of what she hopes isn't a cold. His hands close around the mug, fingers pressing her own for a moment. "Really. Thanks."

For not being mad, for redirecting her frustration, for giving him a break even though she's the one who's pulled eighteen hour shifts these last few days.

"Not a big deal," she says, shrugging.

He takes a slow sip, winces when the heat hits his throat, but he sighs and leans back, his head tilted.

She crawls into bed across his thighs, lies down beside him. He stays upright, sipping tea slowly.

Kate splays her palm at his thigh and nudges her forehead into his hip, closing her eyes.

She could probably fall asleep like this.

His hand comes hesitantly to the top of her head, fingers sinking into her hair. She turns only a little, brushes her lips to the inside of his wrist.

A year ago she had none of this. She won't ever forget that.

—–


	7. josh comes out

Three word prompt: Josh comes out

— INKSTAINEDCOFFEECUP

#307

* * *

Beckett checked the peephole and groaned to herself, her forehead coming to rest against the door.

She wasn't prepared for this. For her own boyfriend? Sad, pathetic. She was still reeling from a bomb that had nearly leveled her city, hand in hand with the one man she actually wanted showing up at her door.

And she couldn't seem to get warm.

Josh was the last person she wanted to see right now.

But she opened her door.

Josh was standing there, all brooding intent and dark shadows. His jaw was hard and chiseled, his stubble had done miraculous things to her in bed, and his fingers had the long, tapered skill of a surgeon.

But he didn't use a keyboard or wield his words to make her laugh, he didn't do stupid things like pull out all the cords on a bomb and then do a victory dance in the street.

He wasn't…

Oh, boy.

She wanted Castle.

Well, that was inconvenient.

"Kate? We need to talk."

Her mouth opened, but nothing would come out. Huddled together in a freezer car, waiting to die, feeling life seep out of her. Racing the clock to find a dirty bomb, only to nearly be too late. She couldn't find words for those things, to explain to Josh the revelation that had just hit her over the head.

Josh stepped into her apartment and lightly took her by the shoulders. "This… has gone on too long, Kate."

She swallowed, closed her eyes briefly to summon her courage. If she did this, finally told the truth, what prevented her from making a huge mistake with Castle? Because it was a mistake. Entirely a mistake. They weren't even from the same world.

"Kate, there's no good way to say this."

"I know," she forced out. She had to own up to it. Her actions. How she felt.

"It's been going on for a while."

Her eyes jerked to his. "Not - that long," she defended, but it felt weak.

He winced and shook his head. "Longer than it should have, and for that, I take full responsibility."

"Wh… why?" she said, bewildered by the look on his face. Cautious thrill, like getting rid of a heavy secret. "I was the one who knew-"

"I mean, no, you know some of it, the things I liked in bed, I know. But you don't know the whole of it."

She stared. "The… things you like in bed."

Josh ran a hand across his jaw and winced. "I met him in Doctors Without Borders. He's usually in the trauma ER and I had just - you had just - no, I'm sorry, that's not fair. He's a trauma doctor and we really did start it out talking about you, we were. And then… one thing led to another."

She blanked.

Josh took her hand in both of his. "This is shitty to do to you right now, after the night you've had, I know. But the way you looked at me when I came down, all that determination and hope after you nearly died… it killed me. Knowing that I couldn't wait to leave. To see him again."

"I… what are you telling me?" she asked, shock making her lips numb. "You're… breaking up with me?"

"I… Let's calling it moving on. Just as you said, six months ago, when I left for Cuba, that-"

"It wasn't an ultimatum," she croaked out. She had been so good about not making ultimatums, about not asking him to decide so that neither of them were forced into that position. She hadn't wanted to decide either, not when it came down to the Twelfth, to her partners, to - to Castle. "I wasn't telling you to choose."

"But I have," Josh said, shrugging and wincing both. "I… you could say I've also chosen sides? I've always thought of myself as being sexually flexible, but I was just kidding myself, Kate. I couldn't let go of that last vestige of-"

"Sexually… oh my God, you've met someone," she said, all of it so startlingly clear. "A man. In Doctors Without Borders. He didn't - he wasn't helping you make a choice, he is the choice."

"That's… yeah." Josh squeezed her hand, patted it as if she needed consoling. "I'm… not sorry. I should be, I know. This isn't the best timing, but you deserve to know the truth about us, about where we were headed-"

"Nowhere," she said, feeling curiously hollow. Light. "We were headed nowhere, Josh, because I wasn't in love with you either."

He opened his mouth, blinked, closed it.

"If you're going to be so painfully honest, risk telling me the whole truth, well I should at least do the same," she said grimly. She withdrew her hand from his and straightened her spine. "The sex was really fantastic, no matter what you say about - one side or another. But that was all it was. All I wanted it to be, all I could handle. I picked you because someone else didn't pick me."

Josh stepped back. And then his lips twisted. "Castle."

"Y-yes." That had been much harder than it should've been, considering what Josh had just admitted. "I was trying to… numb myself. With you. And I'm sorry for not being honest about that until now."

Josh shook his head, rubbed his hand along his jaw in that manner that always irritated her because Castle was right. He was too good-looking and that little foppish gesture meant he knew it; he catered to it. He was like a soap opera star, preening. And she-

No.

No, he was a good man with a compassionate heart and she had picked him up one night at a biker's pub near the hospital because she hadn't been drunk but she had been furious and sad, really stupid in combination because she was always so proud of herself for the not drinking that she did something else self-sabotaging just to prove she could.

Josh.

Josh Davidson, a dead-end relationship if ever there was one. The man was - into men, apparently. Or into lots of different kinds. Flexible.

"Well," he said, slowly scanning her apartment. He seemed just as wordless as she was.

"Well. Josh. Good luck with… him. Whoever he is. You deserve it."

Josh nodded, his hair falling in that too-perfect way over his forehead when he was troubled. And he never pushed it back. "You too, Kate. And for God's sake, speak up before it's too late."

Josh turned for the door and opened it, held it for a moment, studying her.

She had no idea what to say.

"You picked me because you knew, somehow, you understood there was going to be a roadblock between us. That you'd never have to risk anything. And I chose you for that very same reason. So, you know what? I hope we both don't get what we deserve - but better. Tell, Castle. Tell him. He'd choose you if he knew."

And Josh shut the door.

—–


	8. Kate supervises Haunt

3wp: Kate supervises Haunt

— ANONYMOUS

#310

* * *

She hadn't meant to come. Castle was taking 'a break' from the Twelfth to finish Nikki Heat (oh hell, why did it have to sound like that in her head?), and she knew that heading to the bar after a successful but grueling case just wasn't a good idea.

But here she was anyway, just inside the Old Haunt, house keys in her hand like she belonged here and not at home.

A crowd of people came in just behind her and she had to make up her mind, found herself being pushed to one side to allow them in. She wound up standing before the narrow dark booths, the wall of the famous staring down at her.

"Beckett."

She turned her head, astonishment so great that for a moment she was speechless.

Castle got up from the booth, gave his laptop one quick check as if to be sure the words were still there - or perhaps that the document was saved - and then he came forward with a look on his face equal parts pleasure and wariness.

"You come to roust me?" he said, moving in like he was going to kiss her cheek or perhaps embrace her. And then he abruptly paused, tragically comical, and instead tucked his hands into his jean pockets. "Something happen at the Twelfth?"

"Oh. No," she finally replied, shaking her head. "Closed the case. Got him. Just." She shrugged, casting a long look around the bar at the crush of people. "Pretty crowded tonight." A glance back at him. "Not too noisy for writing?"

"Usually dead in the afternoon," he explained, looking to the bar himself. "Hey, you want something? A scotch or something fruity or hey, I know, pomegranate martini - you're a vodka-"

"Castle." She swallowed the irritation. "A beer. Something dark."

He nodded and moved past her for the bar, and behind it, owner's access, she supposed, and Beckett finally turned back to the nest he'd made of his booth.

She sat opposite his laptop, pushed her body against the wall, far as it would go. Needing the pressure it gave, or maybe the darkness, the seclusion.

Castle came back with two beers, flipped the top off hers with his thumb as he set it before her. She blinked in surprise, but realized he'd already cracked them both open back at the bar, left the tops on as he carried them over. Of course. She knew that.

He settled across from her, his own cap disappearing in the massive maw of his hand. He took a swig, regarding her, but oddly silent.

"I guess I thought you might be here," she said finally. Admitting it.

He grinned but caught himself, like he was trying to hide it. Ever since the swings, he hid. Hid the pleasure, hid the frustration too. Sometimes she didn't know if what she thought she remembered was how it had really happened.

But not today. Not with him sitting so close to her that his knee kept bumping hers under the table. Not with the sneaking smile that kept creasing the corners of his eyes.

She let out a long breath, tapped the lid of his laptop with the neck of her beer. "You work, Castle."

He tilted his head. "What are you gonna do?"

She could tell he was about to make some clever joke about staring being creepy. But that was a little too predictable for the good feeling in her chest after that smile. "What am I gonna do?" She paused, smiled back at him. "Supervise."

—–


	9. you were wrong

3 words prompt: you were wrong :D

— ANONYMOUS

#313

(for  muppet47 and  aspenmusing and dtrekker and  castleincalifornia and  kathrynchristie for the convo about angst)

* * *

He makes it as far as the lobby of the Twelfth.

It's pathetic, and he knows that, but his hands are empty and so is his heart.

He bows his head, elbows propped on his thighs, and he tries to stop thinking. Only goes in circles, terrible awful circles, her face hard and unforgiving in the interrogation room, her words as convicting as the obvious truth.

She remembers everything.

She remembers everything. It wasn't even a confession in there. It wasn't even a gritted-teeth, avoiding eye contact reluctant statement. It was just point blank and pointed. A tool she used to dig.

A tool she used.

He's in love with her and it's a tool she uses.

Rick scrapes his hand down his face and tries to swallow past the tightness in his throat.

He really needs to straighten his spine and stand up and walk out of here. He needs to bow out gracefully. He needs to stop hanging around like a whipped dog that doesn't know any better.

Take a hint, Rick.

He squeezes the bridge of his nose, realizing with brutal clarity that her performance piece inside interrogation was probably partially for _him_. _Take a hint, Rick_. How much nicer can she say she's not into him? Her silence all summer spoke volumes, but he just didn't want to hear it.

And the swings? He's been seeing what he wants to see, hearing what he wants to hear. She was trying to repair a damaged friendship, at best, and at worst - and most likely now - she needed his leads, his notes on her shooting, the case she wouldn't be allowed to touch.

He's in love with her and it's a tool she uses.

"Castle?"

He closes his eyes and takes a fortifying breath.

"Hey, did you just leave me coffee?" A touch on his shoulder. "I found this cup at my desk. Thanks."

Of course it was him; she doesn't even need him to answer. Who else follows her around and caters to her?

He lifts his head. "Yeah."

She backs up a step, glances around the chaotic police lobby, scowls. "Hey, let's take this somewhere quiet. You… don't look so good, Castle."

"I'll, uh," he sputters, "nah, I'll just - I was on my way home."

She steps back into him, too close, too much, drops to the empty spot beside him. "And you had to sit down?" Her hand tucks the coffee in against her chest. Studies him.

He's not sure what she sees; it's all he can do to keep his thoughts marshaled, his feelings from rioting. He is deeply struck, and the wound still has that angry lure where he can't help but probe at it, see how far it really goes.

Pretty far. Yeah. She can't sit this close to him and remember everything about her shooting.

He braces himself on his knees, pushes up to standing. She rises with him (always so damn graceful, the movement of her body is liquid strength and he will never have the right words to explain it). She turns to him and catches his forearm, and it's all over, it's over, he's in love with her and it's a tool she uses.

"I have to go," he gets out, jerking back.

"No, wait." She runs a block on him, shifting smoothly even with the coffee against her chest, puts her body in front of his. He halts so as to avoid touching her, running into her, holding her for just a moment, a bare second, those elbows at the tips of his fingers and his heart thrilling- "I wanted to talk to you, wanted us to talk. There are things we really need to say."

"I need to go," he mutters, breathing too fast. "Don't - don't do this to me right now." He swallows and yearns desperately for the lobby doors, for five more minutes alone on that bench to have gathered himself together to make the long trek home with this blow.

"Don't… do what to you?" she whispers, a faint step back. "Have a conversation? Or… be serious for once. Without the subtext."

"Right, subtext," he gets out. "I've got it now, you know. No need to just - punch me in the face with it. I can take a hint."

She releases him; he glances back to see her face bewildered but quickly screened, smoothed. "A hint."

His jaw works and he scans the lobby. They're inconspicuous.

"You said don't do this to you?" she murmurs.

She sounds hurt. Part of him is glad, serves her right, part of him is aching.

"At least not here," he sighs, longing for the doors. Escape. Not here, Beckett, just… not here.

"Then where. _When_. Because every time I finally - get up the courage to tell you what - what's most important, it's-"

"It's not important," he husks, shaking his head. "I'll survive. It doesn't have to be - a thing. I'll figure out how to…"

He can't even say it. Let alone figure out _how to_.

"It's the most important thing in my life."

His head whips around to her, pierced. He's struggling not to bleed to death here and she's trying to hold together their friendship with swords?

"Castle." Her eyes dart past him, come back. Spell-binding. "You."

"I what."

"Just you." She looks away; he can see her eyes close from her profile. "Not here, okay, I won't. It's not exactly private. But where?"

He's lost. Caught between a bed of nails behind him and a thickening mist before. "I don't… follow."

"You never had a problem following before," she mutters. "Come here, just-" She huffs and grabs him by the hand and drags him away from the bench, past the metal detectors - the guy waves them through on Beckett's snapping command - and then into a alcove near a window, huddling close.

"This is the best you're gonna get, Castle. You keep running off or we get interrupted or we're too cryptic and it's time to be honest."

Oh God, he could really do without-

"I - there are some things - I think we're straying from the - damn." She groans and sinks her head into her heads, not looking at him. "Castle."

"Why does it sound like you're blaming me for something?" he snaps.

Her head jerks up. Eyes widening.

"I told you it's fine. I'll figure out how to keep my damn feelings to myself. You don't need to worry-"

"What?"

"It's not like I - well I have, but that's not - look here, Beckett. You want me to leave the precinct, I will. Might be best if we just had a few weeks to - or at least if I can have some time to, let's call it reorient? just figure out, figure out how to-"

"What the hell are you saying?"

He grits his teeth.

" _Leave_? Why? You promised to be here. You said you would _wait_. Why-"

"Whoa, hang-"

"-are you suddenly talking about leaving? Reorienting to _what_?" The thunder drops off her face, her chest heaves. "To who?"

"Whom," he corrects automatically, under his breath, and she flinches.

Her face goes white.

She stumbles back and turns her head and in that instant of withdrawal, the sheen of tears spills over onto her cheeks.

"Beck-ett?" he croaks.

She turns sharply on her heel, but she doesn't stalk away; she just stands there. One shoulder lifts, her chin goes up.

"Are you crying?" he gasps, darting around to shield her, put his body between her and everyone else still in the building, all these people in and out, her co-workers, God, why is she crying?

He grips her by the shoulders, frantically searching for a place to hide her, the damn alcove isn't enough-

She's battling against him, knocking his hands away, when he finally tunes into the epic struggle moving across her face. She dashes the heel of her hand under her cheek, but she's not actually crying, she's stronger than that, she always has been; it's so impressive how she steels herself for the worst and fights right through it. Her head turns away from him, her whole _body_ turns, avoiding him.

Avoiding him.

"Oh, God," he groans, dropping his hands. "You didn't mean - you don't mean - stop that, Beckett, I'm still _waiting_." And when his frustration fails, as it always does, to get a reaction from her, he tries again. "For you. In case that's not clear."

Her shoulders hunch, her head turns. She has shiny eyes but dry cheeks; her face is a mask.

"You just - you do _this_ right here, this freeze me out thing, Beckett, what am I supposed to think when you don't let a thing show on your face, when you use something like your _shooting_ to tear down a suspect right in front of me and I-"

"My shooting?" Her voice is rough with checked emotion. "That's what this is about? I thought we talked about that."

"I thought you were sick of me," he says dully. Avoiding her eyes, still slow-burning with anger that feels a lot like a thinly veiled grief. "I thought you were letting me down… gently. With that interrogation."

Her voice is grim. "You were wrong."

He bobs his head, nodding in time to the harsh thump of his heart. He deserves that, he does. He deserves her judgment and dis-

"But it looks like somehow I have let you down." Her hand against his wrist, her thumb plays over his own. He's stunned wordless by it. "How did I let you down, Castle? I thought I explained." Her voice is a low chord of grief. "I thought you understood that I'm not who I want to be, I'm not good enough to be in this with you until I've done the work-"

"What?" he whispers. "Good enough?"

Her eyes drift closed. "I am trying. I swear to God I'm not just wasting your time-"

"It's not time wasted," he startles. "What time is wasted?" The misery on her face rips him to shreds. "Kate."

Her eyes flare open. "I'm sorry. I hurt you somehow and I don't even know what I did."

"I…" He shakes his head. "I misconstrued. I… don't know. I didn't understand. I - gotta have more than subtext here, Beckett." He winces and wishes he could reach for her. Somehow it would be better if he could just touch her, show her, if he could cradle her face in his hands and be gentle with her. "Don't mind me. I'm easily confused."

"I thought you understood," she breathes.

"I thought I did too." He swallows roughly. "Until I didn't." Another rough breath to steady himself. "But I do now." He glances at her. "I think."

She buries her face in her hands.

He feels like an asshole, like somehow this is his fault. He can't fathom how this got turned around. He can't figure out what's even been said. Only that he nearly broke her, and he has no intention of being the one to break her.

"Castle, I'm - I love you." She lifts her face from her hands, grit in the set of her jaw. "Does that - clarify things?"

He can't breathe.

Her face slowly slides into panic.

"No!" he croaks, grabbing her shoulders. "I mean, yes. Yes. That's - incredibly clear, oh God."

He doesn't care about the lobby, about her co-workers; all he wants is to erase that moment's terror from her face. He wraps his arms around her shoulders and draws himself into her, a fierce embrace. All the strength in him.

Her breath puffs at his ear, a grunt.

And then her forehead comes to rest at his cheekbone, a shaky inhalation.

He cups the back of her head even though he really shouldn't, and she grips his suit jacket in her fists.

A fast swallow, a steadier breath.

"Hey, um. In case it's not as clear," he murmurs. "I mean you remember, it's understood, but… not to push, this isn't me pushing, I'm still waiting, this is me waiting, I swear, but in case maybe you're as in the dark as I was a few minutes ago, Kate, I love you back."

She lets out a weak chuckle, but nods against his cheek. "Good - good to hear." A sigh. "When no one is dying."

He finally releases his breath.

—–


	10. I unbroke Beckett

Laura, can you do this as a three word prompt: I unbroke Beckett

— KIMSTYL

#315 (continuation of #15 He broke her)

* * *

She woke sometime in the middle of the night, sore, pulse throbbing in her head. And between her legs.

A good sore. And a bad sore. All at once.

Kate licked her lips and shifted a knee in his bed, felt the ripple of pain across her back, her _ribs._ Hurt to breathe too deeply, though she hadn't noticed it when she'd come to him in the midst of this thunder storm.

The lightning still flared woefully from time to time. Illuminated his bedroom, his body. His arm out as if he had wanted to pin her to the mattress, keep her there.

She had to go to the bathroom. She ached in ways she couldn't yet distinguish, too exhausted, too grateful.

Kate eased her foot to the floor and slid out from under the sheet. Her knee dipped when her weight came on it, and she had to clutch at the side table to keep her balance.

Breath rattled in her lungs. Her heart was thumping like a caught thing in a trap. She felt - faintly - sick, and she had to move away from the bed towards the bathroom, so carefully.

She closed the door only halfway after her and turned on the vanity light, winced at the harsh exposure and turned it off again. In the blessed cool relief of darkness, she used the bathroom, eyes closed, swaying for a moment on the seat.

She finished, cleaned up, shifted towards the bathroom sink.

That's when she saw him, backlit by lightning in the doorway.

Fear spiked through her, but then she saw it was him, shambling towards her in the storm-licked darkness.

"Your back is covered in bruises," he husked. His voice made her insides turn out, her spine shiver. "Kate, it looks bad."

She turned before the mirror, her hands still soapy, the water running, both of them naked in the bathroom. She saw in the mirror what he must have seen in the flare of lightning, the mottled black blossoms along her ribs and spine.

His hands touched her first, before his body was there, warmth and heat and electricity. She forgot to breathe, and then her lungs pinched, and the water washed away the soap from her hands.

He leaned past her and turned off the faucet, one hand catching her by the wrists. He had a towel, he was drying her hands and then caressing her spine very lightly with fingertips, with the towel's softness, with his lips.

She swayed again, lids slamming shut. His kisses touched a random pattern across her back, must be one for every bruise, and she whimpered as her breath seized and her heart kicked.

"Come back to bed. I can help."

She turned into him, her lips instinctively searching for skin, for his neck or that salted place at his collarbone where her teeth had already made their mark. "You already have."

"Pretty as that sentiment is-" His voice was a burr that nudged her feet into movement, following him as he tugged.

She crawled back into his bed and laid on her stomach in the cool, soft sheets. She heard him in the bathroom, rifling in drawers, bottles knocking into each other. He hadn't followed?

She opened her eyes just as he came back to her, she watched him squat down beside the bed. His hand was so large. It dwarfed her face, made her feel cherished. Or dominated. Depending on how he used it, how he used her.

She kissed the meat of his thumb and then nipped it, and his mouth curved into a terribly erotic smile.

His eyebrows danced. "I bet I can make arnica gel and Icy Hot sexy."

She laughed, and it hurt, but it made her lift her hand and touch his jaw, the soft skin under his chin. "It's a bet," she smiled.

He crawled right into bed over her with a happy little noise.

She closed her eyes and shivered as he got to work.

—–


	11. Castle's note

Castle's suicide note

— ANONYMOUS

#323

(I don't know what might trigger you, but if the prompt above makes you feel disquieted, please don't continue. Be assured, Castle is not killing himself.)

* * *

She's rushing through the loft, grabbing a shoe here, snagging her jacket from the couch, hopping on one foot towards the kitchen for coffee she doesn't need. She has files under an arm for the press briefing tomorrow, she's walking funny as she searches for her other shoe, she's trying to shove toast into her mouth so her stomach won't rumble later tonight when everyone has gone home and she's tempted to do the same.

She's not pregnant. But they're working on it; they're going to see the specialist later this week, he finally agreed. No one will get wind of it, she hopes, at least not until she has something _for_ them to get wind of. Stupid to feel like her job could jinx her, but it could. Does? Is?

She's alone in the loft, and as the coffee finishes percolating, she checks the time.

It's late. Where's Rick?

All of her controlled whirlwind comes to a grinding halt.

It's _late_. She didn't give it a second thought when she came stumbling home and straight into the shower, stripping her mud-soaked clothes off and leaving them on the floor under the second showerhead. She didn't even think of him when the door didn't open and his face didn't pop around the corner and ask her for all the fun details of her case.

She's a captain; she's needed back at her precinct. But where is her husband at this hour?

"Rick?" she calls out, more tentative sounding than she'd like. She's trying to remember if she actually saw his body in the bed or if it was mere pillows.

She takes a step towards the hallway, crashing into the wall as she forgets she's missing a shoe, and her phone vibrates angrily in her back pocket.

Forget the pumps; she can wear her brown boots for this.

She kicks off the heel and jogs back for the bedroom with the smell of coffee redolent in the air. Drawing her back. She needs to go. Her phone has another anxious alert that comes in right as she clears the doorway.

No. Not Rick. Just pillows.

It's nearly midnight. Where is he?

She strides to the closet and tugs out her favorite brown boots, unzipping one as she jostles the files, the other boot, and her phone. She's already heading for the office to check - sometimes he gets in the zone, just as she does, and he wouldn't register a train wreck - but his office is empty.

His laptop is up. Her phone, alerts unlooked at, buzzes again. But she's irresistibly drawn to his desk, her feet moving without her express written consent.

She's not pregnant yet. There might be something wrong, one of them, both of them. Her heart is pounding. It's midnight, or almost, and he's not here to make her coffee she shouldn't drink, and his laptop is up and not plugged in and he never leaves it like that.

She taps the space bar and the computer whines and wakes, blue illuminating the screen.

He has a document open on his desktop, untitled, un _saved_. Words on the screen she shouldn't read.

She shouldn't read, but he hasn't been writing lately, said after they got shot it was too hard to put Nikki and Rook through anything more.

She shouldn't read but it screams off the page.

 _I can't keep going like this. I'm sorry. You're stronger than you know. You survived your mother; you'll survive me._

Everything falls.

Papers flutter and skim across the wood floor, boots thudding hard after. Her knees drop and her body hits the desk on the way down.

She claws, the chair, the desk, her phone crushed in her hand. Nothing registers, nothing comes through, a terrible black darkness and a denial so strong and vivid and furious that she chokes on it.

 _No_.

A clattering from somewhere, sounds muted by blood rushing in her ears, throbbing in her head. Sounds and disquiet, things disturbed, a sudden grip on her shoulder.

"Is it bad news? I saw something on CNN. Did another bomb-"

She turns a blind face to the thing hauling her to her feet.

"Oh, shit. That's a novel. Kate. That's the novel. I just started it, had to run out for snacks, I've been writing reams since you've - shit - Kate. Kate, that's _Rook_. And it's not a suicide note, Rook would never do that, oh my God, stop looking at me like that."

She cracks.

Flings herself at him, crushing everything, and he's crushing back, murmuring words into her hair, petting her, holding her up until her feet finally work. Knees. Hips. Shoulders.

She smacks him best she can so close like this. Hits him again for leaving it up untitled and a mess on the laptop.

He's laughing a little, chuckling at her anger that isn't anger. "I know, I know, really bad timing. But hey, I'm writing again."

"No," she growls, slapping his chest and pushing back. "You've been _sad_ and quiet, you get quiet when it's bad, like right after we were shot and you couldn't help me, and then trying to have a baby-"

"Hey, no, no. I'm - yeah, okay, I'm sad. I've been… I don't know if you can call it depressed-"

"You stopped coming to the Twelfth."

He sighs and bows his forehead to hers. "Okay, I've been depressed."

"And quiet," she whispers.

He doesn't answer that.

"Three years ago, I'd have known this was a novel," she chokes out. "Three years ago, I would never have thought-"

"Three years ago, we hadn't been shot in our own home."

"And." She grips his biceps because therapy has only done so much, and there's more to this. "And? Three years ago…"

He growls her name as if in exasperation, goes on. "Three years ago, my wife hadn't told me she needed space, utterly upending my entire sense of self and what I'm worth, not only to her, but to the damn world. Are you happy, Kate? I'm still not sure I'm any good for you, I'm damn well certain I bring you nothing but heartache and misery, and if I were thinking about killing myself, I wouldn't write you a note like a selfish bastard. I'd just do it."

She stares at him. He stares back. His lips move, nothing comes out.

Kate steps into him, presses her cheek to his; she's not sure which of them is crying, maybe both. She clings to him because she never has the right words, because words don't penetrate this writer, not when he's so good at twisting them to his own ends.

"You need to go back to the therapist," she whispers.

He nods against her. A little noise in his throat. "Rook didn't write a suicide note."

"No," she agrees, clutching him a little harder. "No, but did you?"

"No," he says forcefully. "No. I just found my angle for the novel. I was only…"

She turns her lips into his jaw, his neck. "Let's hold off on the doctor's appointment, hold off on the baby-"

"No," he gasps. "No, that's the-" A rough noise, his hands at her shoulders. "That's a bright spot, thinking maybe we figure this out. Start something."

She nods, but she'll cancel it anyway, reschedule.

"I'll call Dr Burke," he says, sounding cowed. "I will right now. Well, when his office opens. No, I'll call and leave a message right now."

She nods, caressing the back of his neck with her fingers. "Please do. You're worth the whole world to me, Rick Castle."

"I - I do know. I do. I just… get trapped in my head sometimes."

"I know the feeling," she chuckles softly, another kiss at his jaw. She also knows kisses and words won't do the work; he has to want to do it, has to keep going to the therapist even when it's dark and scary. "You haven't been sleeping, the nightmares, you haven't been writing - well until now-"

"Three sentences," he grumbles.

"I haven't been here, last few weeks, because of this task force, so I'm not sure you've even eaten-"

"Cheetos," he admits with a sigh.

"And peanut butter," she remembers. One night crawling into bed, the jar on the night stand. "I haven't been paying attention because I bury myself in work, I combat my darkness with overtime. But I'm cheating you, and I'm sorry, so sorry-"

"I'm not trying to kill myself," he grumbles.

"I know," she promises. "But you _are_ the world to me. Asking for space was dumb, and it's not what I'm doing now. Don't dwell there, Rick, when we both know better. You are the _world_ to me. My whole amazing beautiful goofy world. My dreams come true."

He grunts and digs his chin into the muscle at her neck. "Sometimes you have damn good words."

She grins, relief easing the knot in her lungs just enough to let her breathe again. "You must be rubbing off on me. A little plagiarism too." He's still buried in her neck, squeezing hard, and she combs her fingers through his hair, holding onto him. "I've had my own darknesses, Rick, and you've walked me right through them. I'm not going anywhere. I may be walking a few steps ahead of you, but it's only to lure you forward."

"You're a damn fine carrot."

She laughs, feeling a lot better now, a lot better, oh God, the truth of those lines and how real it felt. "Don't you forget that."

"I'm calling Burke now."

She hands him her phone.

—–

(If you or someone you love is dealing with depression or suicidal thoughts, if you're unable to articulate your feelings or cutting in order to feel, please _please_ ask for help. Any adult. No one thinks less of you. No one will turn you away. It might take some time to get the right kind of help, it might be frustrating, a long road, but you are worth it. National Hotline: 1-800-273-8255)


	12. naked Kate 323

3-word prompt: "naked Kate 323" ;)

— NIC6879

#327 (slightly M rated)

* * *

"How is it you've been _counting_ ," she hisses, skirting around him for the bathroom.

"How can you possibly think I wouldn't be?" He chases after, gets a shove on his chest that has him stumble half a step back. It's just enough to allow her to slam shut her bathroom door, leave him pouting outside. "You do know every single time has been a revelation."

"Go away, Castle. I have to pee."

"Pee noises don't bother me."

"They bother me!"

He grumbles and leaves her alone, heading back down the hall for her bedroom. He finds his boxers and struggles to pull them on, feeling clumsy in his abject slothfulness these days. He isn't thrilled she's on suspension, but damn is it fun.

And lazy. He should make coffee.

He's too lazy for coffee.

Castle sinks back to her mattress and debates the merits of seducing her when she walks out of the bathroom. She did, after all, go in there naked. Not a stitch. The nudity has to be for a reason, and not just because she's entirely comfortable in her own skin (if not with pee noises).

He shucks the boxers, difficult as that is, grunting when they tangle around his ankles, the back of a calf (he needs to do more calisthenics, less cronuts, for sure). Throws the boxers to the floor.

Sits up.

Other things are also up.

He glances at his body, a pang of unease. They're not so far into this that he feels safe assuming she wants it all the time. _He_ wants it all the time, and so far she's been right there with him, but she did shove him away just now.

And he's not fresh as a daisy. It's five in the afternoon and she's in her _I should be at work right now_ phase of the day, and sometimes he can't always love her out of it. He can love her in it, sure. But out?

Okay, now he's second-guessing. He hasn't been this nervous since…

That first morning when he woke and she was gone.

Whew. Okay. This is ridiculous. This morning she trailed her hair down his chest to his groin and teased him so mercilessly he shot too soon. And then she laughed and cleaned it up. So. This shouldn't be a _thing_.

The bathroom door opens.

He's rigid with tension. And lust. A screaming crash in his self-confidence apparently makes him also painfully at attention.

She appears in the doorway, gloriously naked, hips and breasts and oh God he even loves her knees, how can he adore her knees so very much?

"So does this count as 323 _and_ 324?" She's rubbing lotion into her hands and not quite looking at him as she traverses the end of her bed. "I mean, are we talking encounters or scenes?"

"Scenes?" The word is strangled in his throat.

She glances up right as she makes it to her side of the bed, and her lips curl in an _evil_ grin. "Mm, or should it only count when I… ahem… have your attention?"

He gulps. She flushes pink to the tops of her breasts and crawls right over his lap, sinks down. Rubs herself against him, all amazing naked beautiful Kate.

He puts fumbling stupid hands on her shoulders, drags them down her back to that perfect place above her ass. "I… I don't know."

"So which is this, Rick? 323 continued or 324?" She husks the words in his ear as if detailing the most lewd and evocative erotica known to woman. "Hm? Once when I got up for the bathroom, and once again when I came back?"

"Whatever you want it to be," he groans.

"How about, instead, once when _you_ come?"

"Oh God."

She chuckles against his throat and keeps going down.

He might just have to call this 325.

—–


	13. Lily and cats

3 words prompt: Lily and cats

— ANONYMOUS

#357

* * *

She ducked and then got down on her hands and knees to look under the dumpster.

Two green eyes stared back at her. Baleful, as Dad would say.

"Lily, get off the ground, it's dirty."

"Sure," she said easily, but she had no intention of getting up. "Here, kitty, kitty."

Fingers snapped. "Right now."

"Yup, I am," she told her mother, bringing herself down on her elbows. Mom was talking to detectives in the alley; she wasn't paying good attention. _Bring your daughter to work day,_ but Dad was in Germany for the third week of six weeks and Lily was stuck with Mom.

She'd rather Germany.

But a fierce cat was pretty cool.

" _Lily_."

"Yes, getting up," she called back, and she did, scrambling to her feet. But only to circle around to the back of the dumpster and crouch down again, where Mom couldn't see her. "No dead bodies, no blood, _never_ the cool stuff. Hey, kitty, where'd you go?"

Oh, whoa, there it was. Big green eyes, glaring at her. It had scurried under the dumpster when her mom and the detectives had come into the alley, stupid dumb evidence collection, and now it was more concerned with the adults than with Lily.

She scooted closer and reached a hand under the dumpster-

"Lily, _right now_."

She jumped up hearing the tone in her mother's voice, stood at attention in front of the big green dumpster.

Her mother was livid. "Get _over_ here. This is not what I intended when I said you could come along for evidence collection."

"But, Mom, it's so boring when-"

"It's _dangerous_. Get your butt over here, Lily Katherine."

She huffed and slunk forward, circled around behind her mother to stand with them. Her mother's hand came back and gripped her shoulder as she talked to the detectives, ordering a block by block search.

She pinched and Lily's knees dipped, her forehead crashing into her mom's back. "Ow."

"I'm not hurting you, stand up straight."

She stood up straight, wondered if her mother could get as tired of her as she was of her mother. "I miss Dad."

"No kidding." Mom kept a grip on her shoulder, ordering officers with her walkie talkie, pointing and gesturing.

Lily saw the cat slink out from under the dumpster, body low to the ground, smooth. Black cat, green and mistrustful eyes. Watching the police.

Lily scuffed her shoe. The cat's head turned, eyes now on her.

"Here, come here-"

"Lil," her mother sighed. "It's an alley cat. Feral. It can't be called." But her hand stopped pinching so hard, and then she released Lily altogether. "Don't kneel in the alley, sweetheart."

Mom let her go.

Lily didn't _race_ away, but she moved too fast for the cat's liking; it slipped back under the dumpster.

No kneeling. If Dad were here, he'd let her, but he'd also say, _you know how your mother gets about alleys._

So unfair that Dad was in Germany. So very unfair.

Lily kicked a piece of trash under the dumpster and heard the cat hiss and spit in retaliation.

And then it streaked out, clawed its way up the chainlink fence, and disappeared up the next door building.

Lily stomped back to her mother's side.

Mom drew an arm around her shoulders and pressed Lily against her hip. "We can stop by the Humane Society after this," her mother said, tugging on her pony tail. "Or Alexis-"

"Can we go to the library instead?" she asked, tilting her head back.

Her mom regarded her for a moment then nodded. Tapped her nose. "Daddy's private library? They have a cat, don't they?"

She shuffled her feet.

"Alright. The private library it is. And I'll talk to your dad about the pet thing again."

That was even better.

—–


	14. umbrella, fortune teller's ball, lips

Prompt: 🌂 🔮 👄

— NIC6879

#358

—–

Beckett shivered in the quickly cooling air, pulled her trench coat tighter around her, cinched the belt. She had stopped under the awning of a palm reader, though she had no intention of going inside, but now she was watching sheets of rain pound the New York City sidewalks.

Rain soaked the concrete edifices, drenched the piles of uncollected trash, made the thin trunks of urban-renewal trees a vivid slash of brown. Her hair was hanging damply around her shoulders, beginning to curl, and she knew she couldn't stay here forever.

She had a date.

Her lips turned down and she stepped backwards into the barred window of the tarot shop. Crossed her arms over her chest.

Not that she was thrilled about the date. She'd just felt like it was _time_. She was tired of being so by-the-book, her nose to the grindstone, the wet blanket at all their precinct social events.

(Social events? They went to bars and pretended they weren't getting drunk to erase the particularly bad case away. They went to bars and happily got drunk to celebrate a good ending. They went to bars. That was her social life, and she didn't do _that_ like the rest of them because the specter of her father's alcoholism hung over her head.)

But Lanie had set this up after the fireman thing had gone sour. Make-up dinner with Castle had been nice, but _no_ , not a date. Not expanding her horizons and getting out of her comfort zone and-

"Beckett?"

She should have known she'd see him. In a city of millions, in a rain storm as wet as a flood, Rick Castle was striding down the sidewalk under an oversized umbrella.

"Castle," she sighed, resigned to it.

He ducked under the awning with her and carefully held the umbrella away as he closed it, shook it out a little onto the sidewalk. Fat drops sprayed, but Castle was looking at her, his too-smooth grin on his face.

"Fancy meeting you here. At my fortune teller."

"At your-" She spun around and saw the evil eye hand in the window, groaned. "Of course. Of _course."_

"You know what's funny? Last month she said I should come late to my next appointment-"

"Next appointment? She's not your chiropractor, Castle."

"She's a consultant. She's quite good."

"She's a charlatan who googles you an hour before you show up to make sure she knows the latest."

"You're just an unbeliever."

She rolled her eyes, wishing she could wait out the storm somewhere else. With other random strangers of New York.

"As I was saying, she told me to come an hour later for a pleasant surprise. And here you are."

Or she had a scheduling conflict, but Beckett was tired of being the patient rational one. "I'm sure that's what it was. She knew I'd be here waiting out the rain when, a month ago, I didn't even know I'd be going on this date, let alone-"

"Date?" His interest gleamed in his eyes, like it always did, but there was a tightness around his mouth she'd never noticed before.

Maybe she'd never been quite this close to him before. The awning was small, the wind was blowing rain in at his side, and he was crowding her.

She just… hadn't realized he was crowding.

She liked him crowding.

What was _wrong_ with her?

She shifted to one foot to ease some space, but he came in right against her, their raincoats brushing.

"What date, Beckett?"

"Another of Lanie's," she admitted with a sigh.

His eyes traced her face and she turned her gaze back on the rain, that uncomfortable awareness rising in her once more.

"Forget him," he said. "Blow him off. Come to dinner with me."

"Wha-" She turned in astonishment, but he was right there, he was leaning into her with his urgency and certainty, and there was nowhere for her to go.

Their lips brushed.

She should have knocked into his cheek first, or his chin should have caught her nose. Other body parts _ought_ to have collided before their _mouths_.

He moaned.

A fire burst into flames inside her. She stepped into him and caught his nape, pushed against his mouth for more, something stronger than the electric discharge of lips.

He groaned and grabbed for her, the umbrella clattering to the sidewalk. She stretched up against him, their trench coats hooking, belts and buttons caught, but she had no desire to untangle them.

All her desire was in this kiss.

—–


	15. Kate Drunk Paris

Because I'm a glutton, THREE WORD PROMPT: Kate Drunk Paris

— ANONYMOUS

#360

AU of the Alexis kidnapped arc

* * *

The second Castle opens the hotel room door and sees her, he's dragging her into his arms.

He feels brittle, he feels strong; he isn't sure what is real.

Except Kate Beckett's arms around him and her stumble over his feet and the smell of her hair in his nose. He breathes deeper, closes his eyes.

She lurches in his grip and he sniffs a little more discerningly. "Are you - were you drinking on your flight over, Beckett?"

She groans. "I walked out on Gates. I was worried about - us. I'm selfish about you and I'm sorry but you can't ever do that to me again, Castle."

"Do what, go after my _family_."

"No, no, leave me alone like I wouldn't _help._ Why did you think I wouldn't-"

"You said you had to be a cop-"

"I said those are my only _skills_. That's the best I can offer you, and it falls so short, but I'd never-"

"Dad?" his daughter calls, her voice with that eerie echo of gunfire still ringing in his ears. "Who is it?" Nervous.

"It's me," Kate says, clears her throat still clutching him so closely he can't see her face. "Just me. Had to come."

"Could stay away from me?" he tries to tease. It feels so flat.

She thumps him on the back, a punch if she was any distance from him to give it real force. " _Someone_ kept neglecting to keep me informed of his progress."

"Oh, me," he says dumbly, some of his numbness beginning to retreat. "That was me. I dropped the phone."

"Among many other infractions, but I can let it slide." Her breath sounds shaky. "Now that you're here. I'm here. One of those. Oh, God, Castle, I might be drunk."

"You feel a little drunk." He spots Alexis just at the doorway.

She hugs him harder and yet he feels her stiffen at his daughter's approach.

Castle waves to Alexis, gestures the girl closer. "Come on, come here. We can't all, can't we all just-"

"We can, we can," Alexis mumbles, sliding in between them. Kate, still stiff, gives him a side look, as if she doesn't know what to do.

"Hug each other," he growls. He's so tired of the stepping around stuff, the halted conversations whenever the other enters the room. "I said-"

"We are, look, we're hugging," Kate hurries, one of her arms at Alexis's waist. "What a dictator. Did you ever think maybe some people just don't cope the same way you do? If Alexis doesn't want to be smothered-"

"I'm okay with smothered," Alexis whispers.

Kate's mouth opens in surprise, Alexis ducks into his shoulder. "I…"

"Hug my kid, Beckett-"

"I am," she chokes out. "I'm so glad you're okay, Alexis, home safe."

"Almost home," Alexis mumbles from his shoulder. "Paris is…" She shivers.

Kate's hand rises to pet Alexis's hair, the smooth long fall of red down the back of her head to her shoulder. "It's done now. It's over. Your dad is kind of an action hero, I hear."

"I really am," he grins, grateful for the return to amusement. "I can't believe you came to Paris." He lifts his hand to do the same to her, brushing her hair back from her cheek, that sharp angle that always cuts him. "And drunk."

"No," she moans, claims his other shoulder as she drops against him. "Just - tired and maybe buzzed and I'm sorry, this is so irresponsible with Alexis-" Her nose turns into him, her voice drops, "but you left me there."

"Never do it again," he promises. "Together next time."

"If it's all the same to you guys," Alexis squeaks. "There better not be a next time."

—–


	16. 302 follow-up

Hello! I loved 302. Would you consider doing a follow up? Maybe the other team ties the game up and Jake hits the winning home run.

— ANONYMOUS

#361

302 follow-up

(also, Jake _did_ hit the winning run in the 6th; let's leave it at that)

* * *

"Home-run-hitting victory!" Castle crows. Jake is still doing that intricate chest bump knuckle dap thing with the infielders after their win, but Castle is celebrating alone on the sidelines.

Where did his wife go?

Ah, she's excused herself from his crazy and is now loitering like the casual-cool model-cop she is, leaning against the chain link fence.

He won't be shamed into silence. Jake is the kid who _loves_ his father's goofy silly ways; were they at Lily's soccer game, he would sit on his hands and wait for her to deign to come to them. Even Reece flushes bright red when Castle cheers him on.

He doesn't care; Alexis always did too. They're embarrassed but they love it. At least Jake is as un-self-concerned as he ought to be; he waves enthusiastically at his father and comes trotting in from third base.

"Did you see me hit that _huge_ home run?" he yells. The whole field hears him, and a few parents on the other side exchange _poor sport_ looks.

"Oh, _man_ , did I?!" Castle yells back. "You were awesome. Come here, hero."

Jake beams, hustling in and attacking Castle with a monstrous hug. His hat falls into the dust with his excitement. "Dad, that was the best moment of my life. This is the _best day of my life_."

He squeezes the kid, lifting his gaze to find Kate just down the fence. She's smiling her usual cool smirk, but he knows her, and he sees it in her eyes: she's so stinking proud of Jake.

And she loves him too, even if he's being ridiculous and over-the-top.

Kate gives them a moment, Jake regaling him with the play-by-play of his time in the batter's box, the balls he fouled off, how his hands were sweating so bad, the sun in his eyes (more than a little exaggeration in it, as befits a Castle). And then she saunters up, a slow graceful walk to the bleachers.

"Hey, boys."

"Mom! Did you really see my home run?"

"I really did," she grins now. A slow unfurl.

And Jake knows her too, knows his mother's ways and the fire inside her, because he bounces over and throws his arms around her waist. Just as it befits any Castle male when confronted with the cool and aloof Beckett female.

(Probably why the twins ruthlessly tease their older sister.)

Kate draws her arms around their dusty, sweaty son and she bends down to kiss the top of his head. "Did Dad tell you about our victory celebration?"

"What?! No! Dad!"

He laughs and bends down for the boy's baseball cap, swipes it off the ground. "Where's your bat?"

"Whoops. Hang on." He unravels from Kate, spins away, then comes back. "But wait, tell me where we're going first."

"Going?"

"For my celebration, of course." A roll of his eyes that Castle will let slide. "My home run victory!"

"Okay, okay, before you get an even bigger head," Kate chuckles, pushing on the boy. "Tell your coach thank you and find your bat."

"Dad!"

"Going to Coney Island, kiddo. The whole team, everyone. Now scram; do as your mother asks."

Jake squeals as he runs off, eliciting the curious looks of his team mates and their parents. But of course, he shouts his news far and wide: the whole team is going to Coney Island for a celebration - and his parents are paying!

"Oh, whoops," Castle says, echoing his son.

Kate slides her arm through his and instead just gives a little wave of acknowledgment to the parents shooting them _are you serious_ looks. "Well, that's okay. Our kids force us to be better people, don't they?"

"They really do. You mind us paying?"

"Not at all, Rick. But you better call Alexis and have her meet us there with the other two."

"Oh, yes. Smart."

"And then we better plan to treat Reece's soccer team and Lily's as well, now that we're doing Jake's."

"Oh, shoot. I've started something."

"You really have."

—–


End file.
